


Bonds Intimate and Profound

by WolfesPuppies



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Caning, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Flogging, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Meet the Family, Panic Attacks, Punching, Qualls - Freeform, Santi doing some Not Good things, Trauma, Violence, first chapter has, fourth chapter has, second chapter has, third chapter has
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-10 11:49:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20134981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfesPuppies/pseuds/WolfesPuppies
Summary: 3+1 of Santi and Wolfe - three times Santi hits someone, and one time he gets hit.





	1. Meeting the Santi's

Niccolo Santi, Wolfe is _delighted _to discover, talks with his hands whenever he speaks Italian for a long period of time, and the more he speaks, the more animated he gets. Wolfe sees this for the first time when he meets Nic’s brother Vittorio for the first time, along with the entire extended Santi family.

He and Nic have been together for almost two years, and it’s the first time they’ve both had an extended period of leave at the same time. It happens to be the week before Christmas, and although Wolfe doesn’t celebrate it, the Santi’s do, and so to Italy they go. They travel via Translation, a favour from Wolfe’s mother – as he says, what’s the point of having the Obscurist Magnus as a mother if she can’t get us out of two days of travel. She’d wished them a safe journey, and that was the extent of their interaction.

“I apologise in advance.” Nic says as they get close to his house. “I think the whole family has come.”

Wolfe doesn’t care to admit how much that prospect terrifies him. His own family is essentially non-existent, and they’ve certainly never had a gathering like the one he’s about to enter. He doesn’t even think he’s ever seen his mother and father in the same room.

“When you say the whole family…?”

“My parents, obviously, and Vittorio. My two uncles and their wives and children, and my aunt and her wife. Twelve people. Maybe eleven, if Isabella doesn’t come. She’s my cousin, she’s fifteen and apparently moody.”

“Oh.”

Nic looks over and takes Wolfe’s hand, smiling a little. “They won’t all stay. My uncles live down the road, and my aunt’s wife is from France, so they’ll be leaving tomorrow I think, to spend the holiday there.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Nic stops then, and turns to face Wolfe. “We don’t have to do this. We can go back, I’ll tell them we got held up-“

“No. It’s okay, I’m sorry. It’s your family, they’re nothing like mine.”

“Are you sure?”

Wolfe nods, and manages a smile that looks a lot braver than he feels. “In bocca al lupo” he laughs, only mostly joking. Nic laughs in response and takes Wolfe’s hand again.

The Santi house is large and pleasant, white-painted walls covered with greenery and a planter at each window, red shutters pulled back to the walls. Nothing like the austere Tower or the even starker orphanage of Wolfe’s childhood. The two stop at the door, and Nic glances at Wolfe once more before knocking.

“Brace yourself.”

The door opens almost immediately and Nic is pulled into a hug by a woman who can only be his mother. She shares his nose, and his green-brown eyes, and she’s kissing every bit of his face she can reach. Wolfe is taken aback at first by this show of motherly affection, but then sees the red tinge on his lover’s ears and has to laugh.

“Mama, mama, mama! Stop, stop!” Nic manages to extract himself from his mother’s grasp with all the grace of a nervous twenty-year old about to introduce his boyfriend to his mother for the first time. He takes a step back and grabs Wolfe’s hand again.

“Mama, this is Christopher.”

Wolfe bows a little and says “Piacere mio, Signora,” and Nic’s mother laughs, apparently delighted.

“Please, call me Antonia.”

Wolfe manages a nod, and then it’s a storm of introductions – the uncles are loud but polite, the wives even more so, and Isabella the moody cousin is in fact delightful company. It’s a cacophony of noise and laughter and jokes that Wolfe only half gets, but he finds he doesn’t mind. He spends most of the night catching glimpses of Nic he’s never seen before – the glint in his eye as he teases his brother, the abashed expression when his mother catches him at the food early, the quiet conversations in the corner with his father. If Wolfe hadn’t been in love with the man before this night, he certainly was now.

Maria and Delphine leave early, and the uncles soon after, leaving just Wolfe with Nic, Vittorio and their parents. The night had been loud and the company pleasant, the food excellent and the wine free flowing, but it all leaves Wolfe feeling a little exhausted and out of sorts, and so he takes refuge in the kitchen for a moment, leaning against the counter and sighing heavily.

“Are we that bad?” Vittorio says lightly from the doorway, startling Wolfe into spinning around.

“No! No, it’s just-“

“A lot.” Vittorio nods in understanding. “My girlfriend’s family is even larger than ours, if you can believe it. First time I met her family, I hid in the kitchen too.”

Wolfe huffs a laugh. “The hiding place of overwhelmed partners the world over I feel.”

Vittorio laughs loudly and brightly. “Truer words were never said.” He reaches into the cupboard to get another bottle of wine and levers it open with ease before turning back to Wolfe.

“Coming back in?”

The brief respite has helped, and Wolfe’s nerves aren’t as on edge anymore, so he follows Vittorio into the living room and takes a seat next to Nic, who immediately leans into his shoulder, a little tipsy on wine.

“You okay?”

Wolfe nods and leans into Nic a little too. “A little tired, but in a good way.” he confirms. Vittorio chooses this moment to press a glass of wine into Wolfe’s hand, and say something to Nic in a stream of Italian, a little too fast for Wolfe to pick up. His Italian is good, but not perfect, and he discovers as Nic responds just as quickly with something that quickly devolves into a friendly argument, not up to the Santi brothers in full flow. He’s content to listen and drink and watch in amusement as Nic’s gestures get more and more elaborate with each riposte.

It’s then that two things happen at the same time. Nic makes a particularly expansive gesture with his hands, and Wolfe leans forward to put his glass on the table. The back of Nic’s hand connects with Wolfe’s cheek, the wine spills on the carpet, and the room goes silent for a beat. Nic looks absolutely mortified, eyes wide in panic as he turns to Wolfe, who in turn is staring at the red wine on the cream carpet to avoid looking at Nic’s parents. Vittorio snorts from the corner, and it’s this that breaks the spell. Antonia stands and picks up the glass, saying something about knowing how to deal with stains on carpets with two sons destined for the Garda, and Wolfe finally looks away from the wine stain and focuses on Nic just as he finds his voice.

“Chris, I’m sorry, I didn-“

“Nic.” Nic stops immediately. “It’s fine, you didn’t hurt me, it just surprised me, that’s all.”

“But-“

“Listen to your man, _stronzo._” That’s Vittorio, and one of the things Wolfe is best at in Italian is insults, and he snorts a little at it, which gets a delighted look from Vittorio, and a mock offended one from Nic.

“Sei un rompicoglioni.” Nic aims at his brother, and Vittoria laughs out loud.

“Love you too little brother.”

Antonia returns then, just in time to see Nic send a rude gesture Vittorio’s way, and he doesn’t notice before she swipes the back of his head.

“Be nice to your brother.”

“Sorry Mama.” Nic has the grace to blush slightly and turns to Wolfe again. “I am sorry, Chris.”

“It’s forgotten.” He assures Nic, and then effectively changes the conversation by asking Vittorio about any childhood nicknames of Nic’s.

Later, when they’re in bed, Nic rolls over and opens his mouth.

“If you say sorry one more time, I’m moving to the spare room.” Wolfe warns, and Nic closes his mouth. “I like that you get so animated speaking Italian. Although maybe someone should keep your hands in check.” Wolfe grins like his namesake, and is gratified when Nic flushes a deep red.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Nic nods, seemingly incapable of speech now, and Wolfe takes the chance to lean over and kiss him thoroughly.

The next morning, Vittorio sends some deeply knowing looks their way, and both men busy themselves with buttering toast, tips of their ears burning red.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go to a masquerade ball! Some may recognise the start of this chapter...

Niccolo Santi is mostly a fan of his dress uniform. Tailored to fit him, he knows he looks good in it, on the very few occasions he gets to drag it out. The black jacket and trousers, silver buttons shined to a high sheen, black boots polished until he can see his face in the toes. The one thing he hates about it is the thrice-damned tie.

Or, not the tie, exactly, but the specific knot required by his dress uniform. Santi is firmly of the opinion that a person needs three hands to tie the thing properly and chooses to ignore the fact that everyone else seems to manage it perfectly fine, even Wolfe, who has no need to even know how to tie it. Every time he tries, and every time he fails, until eventually he gives up.

“Chris! Come help.” There is absolutely not the hint of a whine in his voice.

Wolfe is already laughing when he comes into the bedroom. He’d been reading in the living room of their hotel suite, anticipating the moment his love would finally give in and ask for help.

“I don’t know why you try to do it yourself.” Wolfe grins as he stands behind Santi, up on his toes a little so he can rest his chin on Santi’s shoulder.

“I should be able to tie a tie.” Santi argues, and doesn’t pout at all.

“It’s a good thing I can do it for you.” Wolfe proceeds to do exactly that, tying it perfectly in less than a minute, stretched over the taller man’s shoulders.

“Thank you.” Santi smooths it down and buttons up his jacket before turning to face Wolfe. “So?”

Wolfe takes a step back and looks Santi up and down. This is another reason Santi loves the dress uniform - the reaction he gets from Wolfe whenever he wears it.

“You’ll do.” Wolfe’s grin belies his casual response.

Wolfe himself is already dressed. He isn't normally one for dressing up, but this occasion merits his finest suit, and he's agreed to leave behind his Scholar robe, despite arguing the dramatic nature of the garment is perfectly suited for this type of event. Whilst it's true that masquerade balls are dramatic indeed, that's still no reason to wear something you wear every day to it, Santi had argued back, and Wolfe had finally given in, albeit grumpily. Santi had appeased him the next day by arriving home with a present - a new frockcoat, long and cut to fit his shape, with gold detailing down the lapels to match the gold on Santi's uniform.

"Ready?" Wolfe asks from the bed, where he'd been admiring Santi as he continues to get dressed. The half-cloak, the ceremonial sword and not-so-ceremonial dagger, he looks sleek and dangerous in the black uniform and Wolfe doesn't bother to hide his appreciation of his love.

"Ready." Santi nods, and waits as Wolfe gathers his shoes - highly tooled black boots to go under his trousers - and sweeps the frockcoat over his shoulders, shrugging a little to make it sit properly. The final addition for them both is matching masks. Elaborately carved and detailed, they're both shaped like a wolf, Santi's in burnished gold and Wolfe's in dark silver, tied in the back with a black ribbon. Wolfe had argued that the shape was a little too on the nose but had quickly come around to the idea upon seeing Santi wearing his. They don't don the masks until just before they reach the building, preferring to feel the cold chill of the Switzerland air, so different to the dry heat of Alexandria. The ball is a celebration of the reopening of a Serapeum after a significant refurbishment. Wolfe had been put in charge of recruiting new staff, Santi in charge of security detail, hence the invitation.

After handing their invitations to the doorman, the pair take a second to look each other over, Santi reaching to adjust Wolfe's mask, his fingers lingering for a second on his face, Wolfe brushing Santi's cloak back over his shoulders, before they turn and enter the room. They make a striking couple in their finery, Santi every inch a soldier and Wolfe a little shorter but no less commanding, and every eye turns to them as they walk in. For all the supposed secrecy of a masquerade ball, it only takes a second for their friends to recognise them, and they go from being the centre of the entire room’s attention to being surrounded by people greeting them, all in their own fine clothes. Scholar Harada and his wife look particularly elegant in their kimonos. The two had been the first appointments Wolfe had decided for the new Serapeum, and they’re eager to thank him for the opportunity. Wolfe and Santi get separated quickly, subsumed into different circles, and it’s almost an hour before they manage to grab more than a quick grab of the hand or a brush of the shoulder as they pass each other by.

They meet again by the drinks table, each grabbing a glass of wine, far from their first, and finding an empty spot of wall to lean against for a minute.

“Enjoying yourself?” Wolfe asks, knowing Santi thrives in environments like this.

“Yes. Are you?” Santi asks in return, knowing just as well how Wolfe hates parties and social gatherings.

“I am actually.” Wolfe says, surprising himself. “It’s the mask, those who only know me by sight don’t know me, it’s refreshing. Maybe I should wear one more often.

“Then you’ll be known as the Scholar who wears a mask, and you’ll be right back where you started. Plus I wouldn’t be able to see your face, and that would be a shame.”

They’ve been together for ten years now, but Santi making comments like that still makes Wolfe’s heart flutter a little, and looking around, he grabs Santi’s hand and pulls him into a nearby alcove to give them a little more privacy, before leaning up to kiss him, only somewhat successfully due to their masks. Metal clinks, their noses collide, and they end up laughing helplessly into each other, the ball still going on behind them entirely forgotten.

“I love you.”

“I love you, Nic.”

“Well isn’t this sweet.”

Their quiet moment interrupted; the pair turn as one to face the interloper. Wearing the same uniform as Santi, although, Wolfe notes, not quite as well-fitting, the man is High Garda, a lieutenant judging by the pins on his collar.

“Lieutenant Collins.” Santi’s voice is cold. “I thought you went back to Alexandria.”

“I did, sir. I got invited back for the ball, seeing as I was involved in the refurbishment.”

“Jasper Collins?” Wolfe interjects. The smarmy voice and the name had taken a few seconds to work their way past the wine haze in his head, but he finally had it. Jasper Collins had been a fellow member of their postulant class, had gained a silver band and a commission into the Garda at the end of it. Wolfe hadn’t paid attention to Santi when they were postulants, let alone anyone else, but Jasper Collins somehow stayed somewhere in the corner of his mind, to be dragged up now. Wolfe takes a look at Santi’s tense shoulders, guesses there’s something more going on, and makes an executive decision.

“Elsewhere.” He declares and leads the other two out of the room and on to a balcony. Two people are smoking at the other end, but they read the tension clearly and leave very quickly.

“You always were one for wanting privacy, Christopher.”

Wolfe isn’t sure if it’s the comment or the unwarranted use of his first name that triggers the memory of one night early on in their postulant class, the two of them sat in the dining room alone, and Collins leaning forward for a kiss.

“You’re an ass, Collins.” Santi almost growls.

“Well Chris seemed to like-“

Collins is wearing a black and red mask that sweeps low over the left side of his face and leaves one high cheekbone uncovered, and it’s this that Santi aims for when he punches the other soldier. Collins stumbles back, hand to his bleeding nose, and Santi would have punched him again if not for Wolfe’s restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Collins. Jasper. We shared one kiss, so many years ago I’d forgotten about it until tonight. In case you hadn’t noticed, in which case you’re either oblivious or stupid, I am very happy with Niccolo. You can either leave, now, or get hit again until you change your mind.”

Collins looks between Wolfe and Santi and makes the decision to turn on his heel and leave, one hand still cupping his nose. When he’s nowhere to be seen, Wolfe turns to Santi, a grin playing on his lips.

“Nic, were you jealous?”

What little of Santi’s face that can be seen from under his mask flushes. “He implied you’d done more than kiss.”

“No, my love. One kiss, that was it.” Wolfe smile again, softer this time. “Ten years and you still get jealous. Take me home, so I can show you how wrong you are?”

“Well how can I refuse a request like that?” Santi’s grin matches his mask, wolf-like, and it’s a testament to their self-control that they manage to get back to their rooms before their hands are all over each other.

Santi leaves his mask on, at Wolfe's request.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has Qualls, Qualls-induced trauma responses and panic attacks, Santi and Wolfe being Not Okay, and Santi doing some Not Good things. Let me know if you want anything else tagging!

Two weeks since the world came crashing down. Two weeks since the Library fell and limped back up. Two weeks since Brendan’s death, and Zara’s betrayal. A week since Khalila, the new Archivist, received a letter from the King of Spain, detailing what was coming. A day since Jess had come to them with news of an informant who had come to him claiming information about the Library and the Archivist that would be vital in the battle that is surely coming, and so they’ve come together, Wolfe and Santi, Morgan, Dario and Khalila, Thomas, leg in a cast, and Glain, to wait for this man. Jess is bringing him, unable to stay still for long, and Santi can see the boy is refusing to deal with anything that happened, choosing to throw himself into work as much as he physically can.

Santi is sat at the side of the room, in a position that means when the door opens, he can’t immediately see who is on the other side. Wolfe can though, and he freezes still in a way he hasn’t for a long time, before grabbing at Santi’s hand, squeezing it tight. Santi understands a second later when the door closes to reveal Jess, and Thomas Qualls. It’s only Wolfe’s grip and his quiet, desperate “_Nic_” that stops Santi from getting up and shooting the other man where he stands. He turns to Wolfe instead, placing his back to Qualls and blocking him from Wolfe’s view, ignoring the staring kids.

“Chris.” He waits for Wolfe to make eye contact, to pull his gaze from over Santi’s shoulder. “Are you with me?”

Wolfe nods after a second, small and tight, still gripping Santi’s hand hard enough to bruise. “He’s here?”

“Unfortunately. But so am I. I am here, Chris, and I won’t leave you.”

Wolfe nods again, and swallows, licks his dry lips. “Okay.”

Santi holds the eye contact for a second longer before turning back round to face the room. The kids are neither slow nor stupid, despite what Wolfe says in his more frustrated moments, and have sorted out the seating arrangement admirably, their faces showing an understanding of the situation, if not the exact shape of it. Glain is standing behind Qualls’ chair, Thomas next to him, the big German boy no less menacing for his cast and crutches. Jess sits on his other side, with Khalila and Dario flanking them. Morgan is sat a little apart, but close enough to be able to work any shields if need be.

“Make it quick.” Santi growls.

“I have information about the Library, about the Artifex-“

“How did you come by it?” Glain interrupts, ever suspicious. Qualls looks deeply uncomfortable at the question, and Santi is viciously happy about that in the small part of his brain that isn’t entirely occupied with Wolfe, pressed against his shoulder and still holding his hand. He’s as surprised as anyone when Wolfe speaks up.

“He was Master of Cells. In Rome.”

Santi sees the moment it clicks for the kids. Thomas gets it first, perhaps unsurprisingly, and his reaction is the most visceral, flinching violently away as far as he can. Glain leans her elbows on the back of the chair, threatening instead of guarding. Jess looks mortified, and Khalila, Dario and Morgan have varying levels of hatred in their expressions.

“Talk.” Santi gestures with his free hand.

And Qualls talks, for what seems like hours, giving information no one else knows, information about hidden passageways and safe houses and mechanics and the Archivist and Artifex that will help n the fight to come. Santi hears maybe half of it, confident in the kids’ ability to retain it all, especially Khalila. Most of his being is consumed with Wolfe, and so when his breathing stops and shudders, like he’s holding back a sob, Santi stands, pulling Wolfe with him.

“We’re done for today.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just sweeps out the room, Wolfe following as closely as possible. They aren’t staying at their house but at rooms meant for guests of the Archivist, and their room is a corridor away. They don’t talk, but Santi can tell Wolfe is only holding himself together through sheer force of will, and whilst that pot runs deep, it isn’t inexhaustible. They finally reach their room, and Santi closes and locks the door before turning around and taking Wolfe in his arms. Wolfe clings to him, hands twisting his shirt and burrowing his head in the crook of Santi’s neck. Wolfe doesn’t cry, but it’s a close call. He’s still too thin, still recovering from his second imprisonment, and Santi is once again visited by the idea of ripping Qualls to pieces. They stay like that, curled around each other, for more than a few minutes before Wolfe pushes Santi away and goes over to the sideboard to pour a glass of wine, hands shaking more than a little.

Santi watches, burning with the desire to either take Wolfe in his arms again, or go and find Qualls.

“Chris?” He waits for Wolfe to turn around. “Will you be okay if I go for a walk?”

“A walk?” The way Wolfe says it indicates he know exactly what Santi is planning. “I think so. I wasn’t prepared to see him today, not…not so soon after-“ He stops, but Santi knows what he wants to say. Not so soon after hallucinating Qualls in the cells.

“I know.”

“I’m going to take a shower.” Wolfe says after a few seconds. “Leave the key?”

Santi takes it for the permission it is. “I’ll be back soon.” He takes the key from his pocket and puts on the bed before walking over to Wolfe. “I love you, Christopher.”

“I love you too.”

Santi goes to the door and leaves, standing on the other side until he hears the lock engage, unlock, and then lock again. A nervous habit of Wolfe’s – he’s fine being in a locked room, as long as he reassures himself he can leave if he wants. He turns to walk away, and then stops as he recalls he doesn’t actually know where Qualls is staying. Looking down the hallways, he chooses a direction and starts to walk, reasoning that he’ll come across something that’ll point him in the right direction sooner or later, and he’s proved right when, a corridor later, he sees Jess. The boy is standing at a window, head hanging low and looking utterly dejected. He turns when he hears Santi’s footsteps, and if possible looks even more morose.

“Captain. How’s- how is he?”

“He’s okay. No thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know-“

Santi takes pity on the boy. “You weren’t to know. Christopher tries so hard to keep everything from that time secret. Even from me. And he does have good information, information that will help us.”

Jess nods. “You want to know where he is.”

Santi doesn’t reply, just waits for Jess to decide. He chews on his lip for a second before nodding again. “Next corridor over. Third door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

Santi leaves, finds the door, and knocks. When it opens, Qualls sees who is on the other side and goes to slam it shut, but Santi is already shoulder barging his way through, grabbing Qualls by the collar and walking him backwards until he’s pressed against the wall, where Santi punches him squarely in the face. He follows with a fist to the gut, and then turns to throw Qualls to the floor, leaning down to prevent him from getting up.

“You do not say a word to Christopher, not one, unless he asks you something first. You do not allude to anything you did to him, in any way, shape, or form. You do not touch him. When we are done, and you are no longer useful, you will leave Alexandria, and go somewhere far, far away. If I hear even a whisper of where you might be, run.” To punctuate his words, Santi reaches down and snaps one of Qualls’ fingers, and then, when the image of Wolfe’s hands that still ache before it rains and in the cold, and the finger that sits crookedly rise in his mind, he snaps the one next to it as well. Standing, Santi delivers a final kick to his stomach before walking out, leaving Qualls on the floor, curled around his broken fingers.

The blank fog that had descended over his brain when the door had opened starts to lift when Santi is half-way down the corridor, and by the time he reaches their room again his hands are shaking. He knocks once, waits a second and then twice more – their pre-arranged signal – and the second Wolfe opens the door, Santi’s mind provides him with the image of Wolfe curled on their bed in the days following his release the first time, fingers bent and crooked, and he backs away from the door, heart sinking and bile rising.

“Nic?”

Santi just shakes his head and keeps backing away until he reaches the opposite wall, sinking down it until he’s curled in a ball, knees up to his chest. He’s vaguely aware he’s being entirely unfair, that Wolfe has suffered more than enough tonight, but he can’t get the overlapping images out of his brain.

“Nic, talk to me.” Wolfe sounds panicked, and that only makes Santi more distressed, at the thought of causing any more distress to his love.

“Nic, you need to breathe.” It’s not until Wolfe says this that Santi realises he’s gasping for breath, head between his knees, and he manages to suck in two shuddering gasps of air, enough to allow him to lift his head up and see Wolfe, on his knees in front of him.

“I hurt him.” Santi manages to gasp. “I hurt him like he hurt you.” He waits for the moment of realisation on Wolfe’s face, the moment he’ll become scared and disgusted, and is confused beyond measure when it doesn’t come, when instead Wolfe softens, when instead of going inside and locking the door again, he moves to sit against the wall, next to Santi.

“Oh, love.”

“What-Why-?”

“Because you’re not him. You’re not anything _like _him. “

“But-“

“Nic. Even if I didn’t love you, even if I didn’t _know_ you, I could tell you, you are not him, just by this reaction.”

“How-?”

Wolfe is silent for a few seconds, long enough that Santi starts to panic a little again, has to look to the side to make sure he’s still there, even though he can feel Wolfe’s arm pressed along his own.

“When he’d leave my cell, he would whistle. Or joke, or laugh with the guards. Ask them about their families, talk about his journey home, or what he would do that night. There was never anything he did that indicated he felt-well. Felt anything about what he had done to me. Not until the end did he show a single ounce of regret for anything he did.”

Silence falls again, this time as Santi processes what Wolfe had said. “I just-I wanted-I-“ he can’t articulate what he wants to say without it sounding callous, but Wolfe knows him, and knows what he wants to say without him having to say it.

“I know, my love. I know.” Wolfe stands abruptly, brushing lint off his clothes, and offers a hand to Santi. “Come to bed, Nic.”

It’s this more than anything that convinces Santi it’ll be alright, because surely Wolfe wouldn’t invite someone who reminds him of Qualls into his room, let alone his bed. He takes the offered hand and uses it to pull himself up and into the room. They get ready for bed in silence, and it’s not until the lights are off that Santi speaks again.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Neither of them sleep well that night, and they have dark circles under their eyes as they enter the boardroom for another day. The kids look between Qualls and his injuries, and Santi’s bruised knuckles, put two and two together, and their collective smug expressions are more vicious than anything Santi could have done to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well this took a lot longer and was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be. But it's done! 
> 
> Many many thanks to thegreatlibraryfangirl for the help and cheerleading!!

Santi is already in position when the curtain rises, on his knees, back to the audience and cuffed to the bar above his head. He rolls his shoulders and smiles to himself at the appreciative noise that runs through half the crowd at the sight of his flexing back muscles.

“Five more for showing off.” Wolfe mutters to him from the side.

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Anyone would think you’re trying to provoke me.”

Santi laughs a little, and obediently pulls at the cuffs a little when told, to make sure they’re secure. The movement has his attentive and (in some cases literal) captive audience sighing once again.

This performance of theirs is the result of a conversation some weeks ago, started by Wolfe bringing up the fact Santi was always so quiet in bed.

_“You know how thin barracks walls are, it’s habit.” Santi shrugged and went back to his book, unconcerned._

_Wolfe was silent for a few moments. “A challenge, Captain.”_

_That piqued Santi’s interest, and he marked his page carefully before turning to Wolfe. “What did you have in mind, Scholar?”_

_“A demonstration, at The Hive, technique vs endurance. I’ll try and make you scream.”_

_“The stakes?”_

_“When I win-“_

_“If.”_

_“**When** I win, you’ll be left on display on the stage, for everyone to see, for everyone to touch.”_

_“And when you fail?”_

_“Fighting talk, Captain. We’ll switch for a night.”_

_Santi considered for a moment. “I accept your terms, Scholar.”_

Conversations were had, arrangements made, and so the demonstration was set up.

What little chatter there is dies down when Wolfe picks up the first flogger. It’s thick leather, soft and well-conditioned, and the first few blows are light, a warm-up. Wolfe soon gets into a rhythm, slow and steady, and Santi’s brain reduces to the slap of leather on skin, the gentle heat rising from the blows. It’s not long before Wolfe switches implements sat on a table conveniently close to Santi’s left hand for a subtle comfort check as Wolfe picks up another flogger, this one with thinner strands, more of a sting than a thud, the change pulling Santi out of the quiet of his mind for a second before the rhythm settles. They’d settled on five implements, twenty strikes with each.

The crop, the third instrument, pulls the first grunts from Santi, the thwack stunningly different to what had come before, single lines of fire along the gentle burn left by the two floggers. Grunts aren’t screams however and so Wolfe continues, laying neat lines diagonally along Santi’s back before finishing with two to the back of his thighs.

The cane comes next, no rhyme or reason to the rhythm, three to his back and then four to his thighs, a break of more than a few seconds, enough for the anticipation to grow and turn into uneasiness, Santi shuffling on his knees in readiness for the next blow, before one, two more to the thighs and two to his back. That almost breaks his composure, pulling more grunts from his chest, all the noise he’ll permit himself to make, determined to win the night.

The fifth and final instrument is another flogger, the braided leather a mix between the slap of the first two and the harder hit of the cane and the crop. Each blow has a strip hitting every welt on Santi’s back, awaking the pain anew with each hit and Santi’s grunts turn to cries and moans, almost shouts except that would mean a loss and he tries to hold them back, pulling against his cuffs and he would have won if Wolfe hadn’t been as desperate to win as Santi and laid the last two on his welted thighs, the fronds of the flogger biting into the tenderised skin and finally Santi screams.

Wolfe steps close and runs his nails down the welts on Santi’s back, draping himself over them and muttering in Santi’s ear.

“You lose, Captain.”

“I yield, Scholar.” Santi’s voice is low and a little slurred.

“Colour?”

“Green. But I don’t know how much longer I can last.”

“Half an hour?”

“Half an hour.” Santi agrees. “On the cross?”

“On the cross.” It’s the work of a few moments to get Santi situated against the cross centre stage, stretched out on display, Wolfe’s work marking him for all to see.

Later that night, Santi lies on bed on his stomach as Wolfe smears cooling ointment onto the welts.

“You’re a bastard.” Santi remarks casually. “I had such plans.”

“Tell me about them.”

Santi does, and then, a couple of weeks later, gets the chance to try them out, and has as much fun as he thought he would.


End file.
